


Upon His Throne

by spacegoth



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bukkake, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fucking Machines, Group Sex, Humiliation, Kinktober 2017, M/M, Other, Overstimulation, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 11:56:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12481020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacegoth/pseuds/spacegoth
Summary: Lotor gets punished (or rewarded, he's never quite sure) for a failed scheme by being given to his father's favorites. This time, it does not go as expected.





	Upon His Throne

“You have earned this, my prince.”

Lotor does not know the name of the commander speaking to him; he supposes the man is one of his father’s favourites. They have been given the privilege of breaking him. Or rewarding him; sometimes Lotor is not entirely sure what is intended by these treatments. Surely, even if the emperor does not watch his son’s punishments, he must be aware of what happens in this room—there is little he is not aware of, after all. He must know how Lotor responds to this treatment. It comes, always, after one of his schemes is unearthed, so perhaps it is both: punishment for his failure, reward for his attempts. A thin smile curls at a corner of his mouth. That is so very Galran, is it not?

“Have I?” He says it with a casual shrug. “I suppose so.”

The commander grins. Most Galra are larger than Lotor, but this one must outweigh him three to one; he towers over him, a mountain of fang and fur. Lotor meets his eyes without fear. Whatever they do to him in here, they cannot injure the Emperor’s son too grievously. They would not dare.

He grabs Lotor in his hands and rends his clothes to pieces with a few precise strokes of his claws. The tatters are tossed to the others in the room; each wants to have a scrap. A trophy. Then he steps back. Lotor is mildly surprised; he expected them to get right to the business of fucking his brains out. That’s what these commanders usually do, granted the right of playing with the troublesome heir to their empire. When he rules over them, perhaps they want the bragging rights. When he rules over them, Lotor thinks he will have them all killed. Except for the ones who performed extremely memorably, perhaps.

“Well? Shouldn’t you get on with showing me what I’ve earned?”

The commander chuckles. “Patience is a virtue, Prince Lotor.”

“Is it?” He tilts his head. “What about conquest?”

Something flickers over the commander’s face, perhaps some swiftly-repressed anger, and Lotor feels a thrill of anticipation—a minor one, to be sure, but he prefers it when they put some passion into his punishment. “We shall see.”

At that, almost as if planned, the door to the chamber opens and two drones push in...something Lotor has not seen before. It looks like a kind of pilot’s chair, with the legs widely spread, and the headrest a semicircular claw. To hold his head in place, he realises. Beneath the chair, there is a ominous black box, too large to be merely a platform. There is machinery inside it, there is no doubt of that. Lotor finds that his throat has suddenly gone dry.

The commander smirks at him, showing an edge of fang. "What's the matter, your highness? Were you expecting something else?"

Lotor starts to fight, then, claws and fangs out. He makes them fight for every inch they drag him closer to the chair, tasting blood on his tongue, but there are too many of them, each one of them larger and stronger than him. That must be deliberate, he thinks. Eventually, when the effort of fighting outweighs the pride, he gives in—goes limp. He lets them strap him in, and it is almost, but not quite, like being at the helm of his fighter. One of them pulls his hair back from his face and, almost tenderly, twists it into a loose topknot. 

Then they step back, all of them. He is naked and strapped into this bizarre chair, in the midst of a circle of Galra commanders, most of whom are already reaching into their uniforms to bring their cocks out. 

"Get him ready," the leader orders, and one by one they pump the slick precum from their cocks onto him. Only some of it hits its intended target between his legs; the rest covers him from chest to knees. An evolutionary advantage, Lotor supposes, for a species that is so disgustingly profligate with its genetics: they can slicken their way into even the most reluctant holes.

Lotor has realized what they have planned for him, now, not as simple as a mere group-fuck where he gets passed from cock to cock. No, he supposes even Galra have limits to their endurance, and this, he thinks, is going to last a long time.

There is a whirr of machinery and he sees it rise between his legs, the thing that is going to fuck him. It is not quite an ideal Galra cock: overlarge, even for a well-endowed species such as them, and where most had a single muscled knot this piece of equipment has three, all in row, increasing in size. Lotor's breaths are shallow; the room seems to shrink and grow around him. 

"Look at him," one of the commanders says, laughing, "he can't wait."

Indeed, Lotor's own cock has slid halfway out of its sheath and is adding its own lubrication to the mess of precum coating his skin, drop by drop. 

"He still thinks he's going to enjoy this." The leader makes a gesture, and the massive _thing_ between his legs starts sliding home. It goes slow, at first, but even so it struggles to gain entrance. It is only when three of them gather round and add some well-needed lubrication along its hard length that the first knot finally slips in. 

Lotor closes his eyes. The chair holds him in place, legs spread and head tilted back. He hears them laugh around him, hears one of them wonder if his hole would even be worth fucking after the machine is through with him. The second knot slides in and he gasps. The third one follows, and he bites back a scream.

Then it starts to pound him.

There is no other word for it: it is a relentless rhythm, divorced from the limitations of living flesh. It fills him up to the hilt and withdraws, fills him and withdraws, and each time it seems he is being stretched wider, fucked deeper. Now and then he is dimly aware of the circle of men around him, jerking their cocks and coming onto him. They drench him with more of it whenever the thick invader needs more slickening to pound its way inside him.

There is another whirr, at the edge of his sensitive hearing, and his eyes jerk open. A second implement has risen, this one not cock-shaped but something like a half-sphere on a long, flexible pole. He wonder for a moment what it is for before it settles over his half-hard cock and starts to hum. The vibration goes through him, a shock of sensation from the base of his spine to the tips of his ears, and he groans out the most awfully abject sound. 

"Seems like he _is_ enjoying it," someone says. 

The vibration redoubles, and the pounding speeds up. The three-knotted rod is now bottoming out inside him with every deep thrust, and he is stretched almost painfully wide around it, sticky with countless loads of come. 

"He is, isn't he. What kind of slut enjoys this?"

_This_ kind of slut, Lotor thinks, the kind that can never be satisfied. Never be filled. Let them fuck him over and over, let him be pounded without mercy, his cock brought to full attention. Oh, he does enjoy it, and he despises it: despises how he cannot buck his hips against the rod inside him, how he moans like a fuck-slave as the vibrations make him leak and shiver and _come_ and _come_.

They _will_ all have to die for seeing him like this, he decides. But he'll keep the machine.


End file.
